Noises in the Night
by Snicker Puff
Summary: Maureen had always been a light sleeper. Written for the fic exchange at rentfichallenge on LJ. My first nonAC fic, so please be nice. Chapter two: Collins comes to help. Chapter three added: Mark.
1. Noises

Maureen had always been a light sleeper. For as long as she could remember, she'd been awoken by even the quietest of noises. Steady noises bothered her the most; someone tapping their foot to the beat of music they were listening to, a leaky faucet.

Tonight, it was a leaky faucet that had roused her from her slumber, and she groaned, curling her body closer to Mark's, trying to tune it out. Mark shifted in his sleep, muttering something nonsensical as he draped an arm across her waist. Maureen smiled. He was so cute when he slept.

Closing her eyes, Maureen tried to relax. She imagined herself in a bubble, floating off into the darkness of sleep, but the sound of the water kept her awake and she could feel the frustration growing with every drop. Her spine tensed and she squeezed her eyes shut, but the harder she tried, the more the sound invaded her mind.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Sighing, Maureen gently pulled herself out of Mark's grasp. There would be no sleep for her if she didn't find a way to stop that noise. Standing and slipping on a t-shirt, she pushed her long curls away from her face and followed the sound of the water.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

She moved to the kitchen first. There was enough light streaming in from the uncovered windows of the loft that she didn't need to turn on any lights. Twisting the faucet roughly, getting at least some satisfaction out of that action, she listened, making sure she'd turned it completely off.

_Drip. _

_Drip._

_Drip._

Not the kitchen. A scowl crossed her face and she shivered, wanting to be back in her warm bed with Mark. Quickly, she moved to the bathroom, the sound getting louder as she approached. She stood in the darkness of the windowless room, reaching for the light-switch, becoming increasingly irritated as each droplet fell. Finally, she found the switch and closed her eyes, squinting at the glare even through her lids.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Maureen opened her eyes. Then closed them again. She shook her head before opening them, but the vision was still there.

Not the sink. _Not the sink._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Maureen began to shake as she watched a trail of pink water run down a long, pale arm. It rolled over the half-bent index finger, hovering on the tip of a chipped, pink fingernail before falling to the floor.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

She wanted to scream. Wanted to call out to someone – anyone – for help, but she couldn't make a sound. She was rooted to the spot; couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. She could only stare.

April.

April lay in the bathtub. The bathtub that was now filled with dark pink water. Only her arm, hanging over the edge of the tub, and her face were visible. Her face that had once been so bright and animated was now so pale and lifeless. The rest of her body was obscured by the dark water.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Suddenly, Maureen was finally able to move and she whirled away from the sight of her friend's body. A sob tore itself from her throat and she could feel her stomach churn as she leaned against the sink, eyes shut tight, trying to block out the image. But with each drip of water on the floor, the image became clearer and clearer in her mind until finally she couldn't take it anymore and opened them, staring at herself in the mirror.

It took a moment for Maureen to realize why her face looked so strange: there was something written on the mirror. Brushing a tear off her cheek, she leaned closer, trying to decipher the hurried scrawl.

_Roger_

_We have AIDS_

_I can't do it_

_I'm sorry_

_A_

Maureen retreated from the mirror, as if putting distance between herself and the words would somehow make them go away.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

"Roger…" she croaked out, but stopped herself before she could call out any louder. She knew for a fact that Roger was high and wouldn't be coming down for quite some time. He wouldn't even realize what was going on if he came in.

Maureen was about to call for Mark when the force of April's message hit her fully. AIDS. April had AIDS. April had AIDS and her blood was everywhere.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

The sound of the water hitting the floor seemed to echo through the room, pounding like thunder in her ears and she became dizzy. Backed up against the wall, she cried out for the only person who would be able to help.

"_Collins!_"


	2. A Scream

"_Collins!_"

The scream echoed through his mind as he drifted out of a deep slumber. Heavy eyes opened slowly, glancing around and realizing it was still dark, before squeezing shut again. He rolled over, tugging the covers up over his head, wanting only to go back to sleep. He wasn't sure what had woken him; all he knew was that a _very_ pleasant dream had been cut short. He began to conjure up the last images from the dream, hoping to slip back into it when sleep took him once more.

"_Collins!_"

This time his eyes snapped open, all traces of sleep disappearing in an instant to be replaced with a cold fear, hearing the absolute terror in the voice. Collins sat up quickly, not bothering to put on anymore clothes, and hurried out of his room in only a pair of shorts, searching for the source of the cry.

Light streamed from the bathroom, the only place in the loft that wasn't in shadow, and he headed there, an unsettling feeling of foreboding running up his spine as the scream replayed itself in his mind. His pace slowed as he neared the door, hearing a faint sobbing coming from inside. He peered around the doorframe and froze.

Collins' eyes were riveted to the bathtub, to April. She looked like she was sleeping. If it hadn't been for the red tinge in the water, he could have convinced himself that she _was_ sleeping.

But she wasn't.

Collins swallowed hard, unable to breathe as he stared at April's body. She was so pale, so… He couldn't finish his own thought. His mind was racing and he felt dizzy. Everything seemed so surreal. Was he still dreaming?

A small movement beside him drew his attention and he tore his eyes away from April, finally registering that there was someone else in the room. Maureen. It must have been her who called him.

"Collins," she croaked, her voice barely audible.

Maureen's eyes held a grief that nearly tore Collins' heart out and he went to her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight against him.

"Collins," Maureen repeated, her voice clearer now, but still soft. She leaned into his embrace, hot tears spilling from her and running down his chest. Collins rocked her as she cried, trying to look anywhere but at April. He looked at Maureen. At the floor. The ceiling. The mirror.

The mirror.

Collins couldn't make out the entire message, scrawled onto the mirror with what looked like lipstick. He could only make out one word.

_AIDS_.

"Oh, God," he breathed.

"She has AIDS," Maureen whispered into his chest, apparently following his gaze. Collins heart pounded at the implication, his eyes darting back to the bathtub, to the bloody water puddling on the floor.

"Maureen, you have to-" he began, wanting to get her out of the room, away from the blood, but she interrupted him.

"I didn't touch it. I didn't," Maureen began in a high voice, eyes staring straight ahead but not focusing on anything. "I can't call Mark. I can't. Can't let him get sick. You can help, Collins. You can."

Collins listened to her babbling, knowing she was right. He _was _the only one who'd be able to do anything about this and the thought made his throat tighten.

"Maureen," he repeated, "I need you to go and call 911, okay?" He needed her out of there, needed to keep her away from the blood. From the disease.

The next few minutes passed in a blur. Collins gathered some cleaning supplies - a bucket, soap, some sponges, bleach – and set them in the bathroom. He couldn't go in yet, not until the paramedics had…

After Maureen made her call, he sent her to get Mark. He didn't want Mark to see this, but he needed to know, and Collins knew the filmmaker would never forgive himself if he was allowed to sleep through it. He'd want to be there for Maureen, for Roger.

Mark and Maureen emerged from their room as the paramedics were removing April from the bathroom. Thankfully, they had covered her body. But for Collins, it didn't matter. He knew he'd be seeing the image of April's face for the rest of his life. Once they had left, Mark moved to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked, though they both knew there wasn't. He couldn't go in the bathroom. Not until it was clean. And there was no one who could do that except Collins. He shook his head at Mark.

"You guys go find Roger. He'll need you when he comes down."

With that, Collins moved back to the bathroom. He looked at the floor, a sick feeling making itself at home in his stomach. He'd never been squeamish, but this was the blood of a friend. There was so much. Swallowing hard, Collins filled the bucket with clean water then grabbed the sponge and rinsed it out. He started on the floor, scrubbing away April.

Collins managed to wash all the blood off the floor using water and then bleach. As he went to empty the bucket into the tub once more, he was suddenly overwhelmed by what had happened. Looking into the tub he saw just so much more blood. How could that much blood come from one person? He began scrubbing furiously at the tub, running the water as hot as he could, swirling it around the tub. The water scalded him, but he didn't notice it. All he could feel were his tears as they burned trails down his face. He continued to scrub hard, sweat beading on his forehead, and watched as the water turned to paler and paler shades of pink.

The water was clear now, but he kept scrubbing. He couldn't stop.


	3. Cold

Cold.

It was the first conscious thought he had as he awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep. He reached out to Maureen, wanting to pull her closer to him, to feel her warmth, but she wasn't there.

Opening his eyes, he peered around the dark room, looking for her. He heard a faint dripping sound, and realized Maureen must have gone to turn off whatever faucet had been left running. It seemed even the tiniest noises could keep her awake. In the back of his mind, Mark knew he was going to get a lecture about turning off the taps, whether it had been him who had done it or not. But right now, he was too tired and too cold to worry about that. Snuggling deeper under the covers, he closed his eyes, waiting for Maureen to return.

Sleep came quickly.

Mark slowly became aware of someone shaking him and he opened his eyes once again to see Maureen hovering over him.

"Mark!"

Her frantic whisper brought him to full wakefulness and he sat up, placing his hands over hers on his shoulders to stop her from shaking him anymore.

"I'm awake, Maureen. What's wrong?"

Hearing his voice, Maureen collapsed against him, and Mark simply wrapped his arms around her, not understanding what was upsetting her, but knowing she needed his comfort.

After a moment, he pulled away from her slightly.

"Maureen?" he asked again, wiping some of the tears from her cheeks, "What's wrong, baby?"

He was completely unprepared for her answer.

"April's dead," she sobbed, voice little more than a choked whisper.

At first, Mark was sure he had misheard her, but as Maureen cried against his shoulder, he knew he hadn't. There was no mistaking the devastation in her voice. As his mind struggled to grasp what she had said, one overriding question demanded to be asked.

"How?"

A sob tore itself from Maureen at the question and she collapsed into him again.

"She killed herself."

Mark sat for a long moment in stunned silence. He rocked Maureen gently, rubbing her back and placing kisses in her hair. He felt numb.

"Did you… did anyone call…" he was having trouble forming words, but luckily, Maureen understood.

"They're on their way," she said simply, voice stronger, steadier than it had been, "Collins is waiting for them."

"Does Roger know?"

Maureen shook her head. "He's still high."

Mark nodded, and they lapsed into silence once more. How were they going to tell him? What would they say? How do you tell someone his girlfriend is dead? That she killed herself? His mind was racing. He felt like he was dreaming – _wished_ he was dreaming. He'd give anything to be able to go back to sleep and wake up in the morning with Maureen in his arms, with everything like it had been.

Why had April done it? What could have brought her to that point? She'd always been so happy, so bubbly. High or not, April had been giggly and full of life. And now… dead? Mark couldn't comprehend it. Couldn't think of anything that could have happened to her to push her over the edge.

Vaguely, Mark registered the sound of water being poured into a bucket. Maureen hadn't told him how April had done it, but he sensed that there must have been blood. The sounds he was hearing must have been Collins, getting ready to clean it up.

Slowly, Mark stood. "I have to help him," he said quietly. He couldn't let Collins shoulder that responsibility on his own.

"No!" Maureen screamed, stopping Mark in his tracks, "You can't!"

The panic in her voice didn't make any sense to him.

"It's okay, Maureen. I need to help him. Collins can't do this on his own."

Maureen was shaking her head vehemently. "You can't, Mark! You can't! She has AIDS! That's why she did it! There's blood! You can't!"

Mark froze. Everything suddenly became crystal clear, and the world began to spin around him.

AIDS.

April had AIDS. Which meant Roger must have AIDS.

Mark remembered when Collins had gotten his test results. Collins had always been like a rock: strong and stable. But the news had  
crushed him. It was the only time Mark had ever seen him cry. He'd stayed in his room for days, not eating or drinking, and whenever Mark had gone in to try to talk to him, he'd found him in the same position: sitting on his bed, staring at the wall, unresponsive. Gradually, he'd come out of it, returned to the Collins they'd always known, but Mark had never been able to shake the image of Collins during those days. If the news of the disease could do that to _him_, what would it do to Roger?

Slowly, Mark reached for her hand. He helped her stand and led her out of their room, blinking in surprise when he saw the paramedics. When had they arrived?

As they rolled April's body out of the apartment, Mark held Maureen close to him, grateful that they had covered the body. Maureen had seen enough for one night, and Mark wasn't sure if he'd be able to handle seeing a friend's body.

He watched Collins for a moment, before squeezing Maureen's hand and moving to him. He placed a hand on Collins' shoulder.  
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked, knowing there wasn't. Not yet.

Mark wasn't prepared for the grief he saw in Collins' eyes. It was just the briefest flicker, replaced quickly by a stony, neutral expression, but Mark caught it. He felt his stomach knot, wishing that this didn't have to fall on his friend. Wishing that he could help him. But he knew he couldn't. And Collins would never allow it. Collins had been meticulous since he had found out he had AIDS, taking every precaution he could to ensure none of his friends contracted it.

After a moment, Collins shook his head.

"You guys go find Roger. He'll need you when he comes down."

His voice shook only a little. Without another word, Collins turned away from him and walked into the bathroom. Mark watched him for a long while, then turned back to Maureen. She was standing where he had left her, arms wrapped around herself, shaking. He moved to her, taking her into his arms and placing a brief, comforting kiss on her lips. He didn't need to say anything, she knew what needed to be done, and she led them to Roger's room.

Roger was laying on his back in his bed, a small smile playing on his lips as he stared at the ceiling. His expression, his entire demeanour, was in complete contrast to what had just happened, and Mark wished, irrationally, that he could stay like that. That he could stay high and not need to deal with this.

Letting go of Maureen, he walked to the side of the bed, sitting beside Roger as Maureen moved to the other side, perching lightly beside him. No one spoke. The room was silent beyond the occasional, faint giggles from Roger.

Mark listened to the sounds from the bathroom. Listened as Collins emptied and filled his bucket, over and over.

_He shouldn't have to do that_, he thought to himself, heart aching for his friend. Mark's mind raced as he sat there, thinking about April. About what had brought her to the point that she would kill herself. About Roger. About his reaction when he finally came down. He wasn't as strong as Collins. Would he be able to pull out of it as Collins had?

Collins.

Dimly, Mark realized that the water had been running for a long, long time. Longer than it would take to fill a bucket. Longer, even, than it would take to fill the bathtub. His heart tightened and he stood, his concern for Collins overriding the need to stay with Roger. Maureen was there. Maureen would be with him.

Mark hurried out of the bedroom toward the sounds of running water, his mind conjuring up grotesque images of what he might find there. Could this have been too much for Collins? He wouldn't have… would he? He was so strong, but everyone had their breaking point.

Mark let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding when he saw Collins scrubbing the bathtub. He hadn't.

The room reeked of soap and bleach, the empty bottles laying on the floor a testament to how much Collins had used. Watching in silence, Mark noticed the dry tears on Collins' face. He then noticed that the bathtub appeared to be perfectly clean. Even so, Collins continued to scrub. It was as though he couldn't stop.

"Collins," he called out, trying to get his attention, but Collins kept scrubbing.

He moved closer to Collins, placing a hand on his back, but Collins didn't seem to register that he was there.

"Collins," he called, louder this time, placing his hand over Collins', stopping his scrubbing.

Collins jerked the sponge roughly away from Mark's hand, looking up at him with panic in his eyes.

"Don't touch that!"

Mark reached out and gently took the sponge from Collins, dropping it into the tub.

"Look at it, Collins," he said, gesturing to the tub, "It's clean. You need to stop now. You're finished. You did good…"

Collins' shoulders slumped as he acknowledged what Mark had said. He sat back against the wall, resting his head on his knees, and Mark moved to sit beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Collins was trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Collins?" Mark asked softly, rubbing his back.

Collins looked at him, and the grief in his eyes hit Mark like a physical blow. Tears were streaming down his face, but he didn't make a sound as he cried. After a moment, he spoke.

"There was so much…" His voice trailed off, but Mark didn't need him to say more to know what he was talking about.

Blood.

Collins looked at his hands, still shaking.

"I can't get it off. I can feel it."

He didn't know what to say. Usually it was Collins who had the comforting words. He'd always been there for Mark, and now it was Mark's turn and he was failing miserably.

"There's nothing there, Collins," he assured him weakly, taking Collins' hands in his own.

"I know!" Collins cried, "But I can't get away from it. It's in me. April… I… It would have been so easy. And now Roger…"

Suddenly, it hit Mark. What a crushing reminder this must be for Collins, of his own disease. Of his own struggle with the reality of it. His heart ached as he watched Collins, as his body was wracked with sobs.

"Collins," he began, voice wavering. God, why did words come so hard for him? "Collins, you're okay. You're strong. Roger's going to be okay, too. We're all here for him. We'll all help him."

Collins didn't acknowledge that Mark had spoken, but his sobs subsided somewhat. Mark watched as he wiped the tears from his face, wishing he could do more, wishing he could take this burden from him.

"Come on, Collins," he said, standing and reaching a hand out to his friend, "Why don't we try to get some rest?" The suggestion sounded hollow, even to Mark, but he knew they needed to get out of that room.

Collins nodded slowly, taking his hand and standing. They walked together to Collins' room, Collins never letting go. At the door, Mark pulled Collins to him, wrapping him in a tight hug. Small sniffles came from his friend, and they held each other for a long time, Mark trying to give Collins the strength he needed through the embrace.

Gradually, Collins pulled away from him, whispering, "Thanks," as he slipped into his room and closed the door behind him.  
Mark didn't know how long he stared at Collins' door before he finally moved away, back toward Roger's room. Maureen was still there, asleep now, her head resting on Roger's shoulder. Roger seemed to be sleeping as well, though Mark could never be sure when he was high.

He couldn't tear his gaze from Roger. Roger had AIDS. His girlfriend was dead. The disease hadn't killed her, but it had been the cause.

And it would now kill Roger. And it would kill Collins.

Mark sank to the floor, finally allowing the tears that he had been fighting to fall, but no sound came from him. He wanted to close his eyes; to rid himself of the images of his friends dying, but he couldn't. He could only stare at Roger. Stare, and _know_ what was going to come.

They were all going to die.


End file.
